Teen rebellion with a guitar riff and a tidy profit margin — Roger Corman could probably smell this one coming from the car park. Riff Randell runs the school like she's already been crowned, and honestly, given how easily she flusters anyone with a clipboard, fair enough. The Ramones don't perform so much as materialise: plug in, glare, play three chords, vanish — genius casting, especially if it cost buttons.
Corman's cheap, gleeful fingerprints are on every frame: thin sets, broad jokes, a headmistress fighting a war she was always going to lose. The plot's thin as a B-side, more scaffolding than story, though once the songs kick in, nobody's checking the joins. The jokes are noisier than clever, a couple of scenes overstay their welcome, and the villains are about as subtle as a snare drum.
Still, it's scrappy, sugar-rushed, and somehow built to last. Three chords, one filing cabinet of detention slips, and by the end the whole school's in bits.